


Stockholm City Lights

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: C R A C K, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 06:17:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15237243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: "Congratulations."





	Stockholm City Lights

**Author's Note:**

> LET IT NOT BE SAID THAT I DO NOT PAY MY RECEIPTS!!!!  
> I make no apologies. Actually I do. I apologise. Profusely. 
> 
> Title from Billy Joel's Scandinavian Skies. He really has a song for everything, doesn't he? 
> 
>  
> 
> [context](https://uk.sports.yahoo.com/news/england-legend-david-beckham-vows-hold-zlatan-ibrahimovic-bizarre-world-cup-bet-110050243.html?guccounter=1)

"Congratulations."

Zlatan surveys the man they call Mr. Golden Balls with the kind of cool yet devastatingly pressurising energy only Zlatan can muster. Mr. Golden Balls looks back at Zlatan with the sort of smile that little boys must wear meeting their heroes. Zlatan can understand what Mr. Golden Balls is feeling right now. Or at least Zlatan can pretend to understand, because Zlatan has never met his hero; it is difficult to meet yourself.

"Cheers, mate."

David Beckham flicks Zlatan a thumbs' up. He is looking well. He has got a new haircut. Zlatan reminds himself that Beckham's playlist is still full of shit and therefore he is not as great as anyone thinks, even though he is still good-looking.

Not as good-looking as Zlatan, but that is difficult too.

"Let's get this over with quickly."

David Beckham leads Zlatan to the box, where there's a plate of fish and chips and an England shirt. Zlatan sits down at the table and eyes the fish in front of him.

"It's haddock," David Beckham supplies, helpfully.

Zlatan cuts into the fish and takes a bite. It's surprisingly good; not that he's never had fish and chips before, but these are far more up to his standard than the restaurant ones he has had. Those were so un-up to his standard that he'd ended up buying the restaurants to make sure they would not be so disappointing again.

The tartar sauce is divine. Like the nectar of the gods, aka the water in Zlatan's house.

David Beckham watches him eat with a strange expression on his face. Zlatan notes this with interest.

"Are you hungry?"

"Not particularly." Beckham shrugs, grinning. "Fine watching you eat."

"Aren't you taking pictures?"

"For Instastory?"

"No, for your personal enjoyment."

Beckham flushes at the joke. Zlatan wonders if he should mention that he wasn't entirely joking. He lets Beckham take a picture and write some stupid caption in text of a colour that doesn't go with the picture. Bright red on dark blue? Zlatan would never.

"D'you want to see it? See if I got your good side."

"All sides are my good side," Zlatan says, uncomprehending.

He eats his fish.

When Zlatan is done he puts his knife and fork down. "The shirt, then," he says.

Beckham pulls out an England kit with KANE – 9 on the back and Zlatan wrinkles his nose. Right now it's ugly but fret not; Zlatan putting it on will make it beautiful.

He takes off his shirt and hears a faint intake of breath.

Intentional? Perhaps not. Perhaps.

He should check.

"Would you like to kiss me?"

Beckham blinks and starts stammering. It would probably be more attractive if he didn't sound like a nervous helium balloon.

"What, mate? I didn't – no one said – eh?"

"Everyone wants to kiss Zlatan," Zlatan says, bored. "I asked if you would like to."

Perhaps David Beckham has never been properly kissed. Certainly that dodgy Manchester boy Gary Neville had never done as good a job as Zlatan would do.

Just to prove the point, he leans forward, still shirtless slash with flawless abs, and kisses David Beckham hard on the mouth.

Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kissers that have been rated the most heavenly, the most godly – Zlatan leaves them all behind.

David Beckham moans. Zlatan hasn't even used his tongue yet.

It's just how good he is.

He lets Beckham push him against the wall – lions like to toy with their prey, after all – Beckham's thin cotton shirt riding up against Zlatan's rock abs. Not even rock hard. Just rock.

Something else is rock too. Beckham whines as Zlatan sticks his hand down Beckham's trousers, copping a feel through the Calvin Klein underwear or whatever stupid brand he's modelling for now.

"I will fuck you through your Calvin Klein underwear," Zlatan says, "so hard that it will be Zlatan underwear when I'm done."

"Please," David Beckham gasps as he buries his face into the pure muscle of Zlatan's right pec.

Zlatan slides his tongue into David Beckham's mouth just as the door opens and Beckham's old teammates walk in.

Zlatan looks up and catches all of them dead in the eye.

Actually he was only looking at Gary Neville.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please read [this masterpiece](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11048253) if you haven't already. You won't regret it.


End file.
